


Still life

by Fatale (femme)



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter hesitates, he can’t help it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still life

Hahaha. Meant to finish the forty fics I have 90% written, instead wrote this. I've liked this season so far, but it's made my shipping heart uneasy. I don't see Peter/El/Neal at ALL anymore, to be honest, and it's breaking my heart.

 

 

Still life  
Peter/Neal  
WC: approx. 700  
Angsty. Unhappy. Let's call this semi-au, since I have so many issues with Peter/Neal in canon at the moment.

 

 

1\. Fantasy - A strong addiction usually with something that is not real and probably will never be.  
<http://www.urbandictionary.com/>

 

 

 

“Come on, whatever you want,” Neal says, voice low and teasing.

Peter hesitates, he can’t help it. What he wants is -- it’s maybe a little gross, he’s not sure. But with Neal propped on one elbow above him, dark hair mussed, light filtering through the thin curtains and catching his blue eyes, lighting them up, it’s hard to tell him no.

It’s always been hard to tell Neal no.

Peter licks his lips. He has the key. If he was honest with himself, Peter could admit that he planned to come here today and do this, ask Neal for this, maybe, if the mood seemed right. It’s just a fantasy, but isn’t every moment with Neal a little bit of a dream?

“I--,” Peter says, hesitates, then barrels on, “I want to wear the tracking anklet. Just for -- you know.” He’s not going to substitute the word _sex_ for _do it_ , he’s not. Despite what Neal thinks, Peter’s not a prude, or a scared pearl-clutching virgin.

Neal rocks back a bit, clearly caught by surprise.

“If you don’t want to, it’s fine,” Peter says quickly. The ice machine down the hall buzzes, voices outside their room filter through the thin door in pulsating waves as people pass by, growing closer, then further. The plumbing groans and makes a funny tick-tick-ticking sound overhead. He and Neal have this -- this anonymous motel room where they meet twice a month, where Peter leaves his I.D. at home, where Neal leaves his games and cons at the threshold. If it’s the only way he can have Neal, the whole ugly and beautiful and terrible truth of him, Peter will take it. Even if it hurts, even if he dresses at the end of their time together slowly, fingers fumbling, numb, heart sore and aching.

“Let’s do it,” Neal says decisively, grimacing slightly and wiggling around so Peter can reach his ankle. Peter rolls over, fishes through his pants crumpled on the floor.

Peter sits up, grabs the key and slides it in, watches the light turn red with a small beep. He pulls the anklet off, fingers lingering over the fragile bones there, massaging small circles across the thin skin pulsating beneath his thumb, while Neal sighs, eyes slipping shut.

Regretfully, Peter brushes a kiss over Neal’s ankle, and lets go, pulls his own leg up and snaps the anklet into place. The thrill is immediate, a heady rush of endorphins, a sliver of fear. Peter went to prison; he almost had this, it could have been his life.

Peter pushes Neal back, holds him down into the mattress, sliding between Neal’s long legs. Right now, Peter tells himself, anyone could be pulling up Neal’s tracking data and know that he’s in a motel, writhing around on a bed, stretched out beneath Peter, gasping into his mouth.

It’s so good, nearly perfect, except -- the anklet is distracting, hard and heavy, a foreign weight rubbing uncomfortably against his skin. This is -- Peter’s stomach clenches -- it’s incredibly stupid, is what it is. It’s like playing Russian roulette with all the chambers loaded, and Peter can’t do anything but lose.

Peter’s in a motel wearing Neal Caffrey’s anklet, having sex with his C.I. He’s let himself get lost in the fantasy, turning himself inside out, risking his freedom, his job, for a man he’ll never truly have, and having the audacity to call it love.

Peter’s chest seizes, he can’t pull in enough air; a hot shock of realization skitters down his spine. Panic attack, Peter’s mind supplies, and Peter concentrates on breathing in and out steadily, pushing down the tidal wave of dread, the horrible understanding that he’s made a huge mistake, has kept making them when it comes to Neal.

He loves Neal, he does, but this isn’t right or healthy. And because of how stupid he’s been about Neal, how many allowances he’s made, how many excuses, how much he’s taken from Neal without even realizing it, how much he’s let Neal take from him, they’ll only ever have this -- this shitty motel, these stolen minutes, this ugly half-truth.

“Peter?” Neal murmurs, brushing kisses across his jaw, eagerly chasing his mouth.

Peter turns his head away, and Neal stops, lets his head fall back against the pillow, eyes shaded and unreadable.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says quietly, anxious and sick, lips numb, unsure what he’s apologizing for.

 

 

 

 

The end.


End file.
